


An ocean of their own making

by duesternis



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hodgson fucks, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Praise Kink, faint feminization in like a few lines b/c of the internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24963304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: There’s the soft whisper of John’s praying. A sound that George has grown used to, that he cherishes, where he thought it a mild curiosity before.Now, John and his dark, wretched eyes and his prayers are a dear curiosity.The prayer stops and George turns, watches John’s turned back, the line of his waistcoat, where the hem has turned up.He reaches out and turns it over again, neatens it. John looks at him over his shoulder, his breath washes over George’s cheek.Too soon to kiss him
Relationships: Lt George Hodgson/Lt John Irving
Comments: 16
Kudos: 29





	An ocean of their own making

**Author's Note:**

  * For [landofhorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/landofhorses/gifts).



> @landofhorses made me do it.  
> I enjoyed doing it.
> 
> Canon Divergence is there b/c they share a room in this one.

During the Lieutenants‘ dinner John laughs at one of George’s jokes and doesn’t look at him again afterwards.  
His ears are red.  
George finds the food almost palatable, says so, and Edward’s vaguely disapproving sniff doesn’t weigh too heavily on him. Of course he will mull it over for weeks, but that’s for another time. Tomorrow night at the latest.  
But John’s ears are red and George sips his Allsopp’s with a smile.

Edward excuses himself directly after their dinner with a nod and a little cough, ducking his head under the doorjamb.  
John still doesn’t look at George, instead focused entirely on the pattern of his cleared plate.  
"What a day, huh?" George chuckles and shakes his head, finishing his drink. John says nothing.  
There’s a creak outside the door and then Gibson knocks twice.  
John calls a crisp "Enter" and pushes his plate away, napkin dropped next to it without the usual care.  
Gibson steps in with a deferential "Sirs" and George gestures for him to clear the table.  
"Anything else you will need tonight, Lieutenants?", Gibson asks, laden with china and cutlery.  
"Thank you Mr Gibson, that would be all. You can retire." John tends to get loud when he’s uncomfortable and he’s louder than he normally is now.  
Gibson nods, clears the room, quietly and unassuming.  
George likes him. He’s a good steward.  
John is stiff around him, rigid.  
Well, more rigid than usually. There’s something there that John hasn’t told him, some kind of secret.  
George is, however, of the opinion that a man is entitled to have a few secrets.

"Tired?"  
John stands and pushes his chair in. His hands are white-knuckled around the back of it. He’s staring at the seat.  
They have time, so George sits quietly and waits for John to come to him.  
For him to clear his throat and flex his hands and open his mouth.  
John never disappoints.  
He looks up from contemplating the seat of his chair, eyes dark and troubled and brow drawn. He looks like some wretch George would expect on his doorstep on a stormy night.  
God, he would invite him in.

"George," John says, voice thick, "I’m tired."  
"Then let’s get to bed, I dare say!"  
"God give me strength," John says to his chair and then marches out of the room. George hears him enter their room and stands.  
Follows.

John has lit the lamp and he’s in shirtsleeves and waistcoat when George comes in. He looks slight without his jacket.  
Younger, somehow.  
George latches their door and hangs his jacket next to John’s. The dark wool is still warm against George’s palm.

There’s the soft whisper of John’s praying. A sound that George has grown used to, that he cherishes now, where he thought it a mild curiosity before.  
John and his dark, wretched eyes and his prayers are a dear curiosity.  
The prayer stops and George turns, watches John’s turned back, the line of his waistcoat, where the hem has turned up.  
He reaches out and turns it over again, neatens it. John looks at him over his shoulder, his breath washes over George’s cheek.  
Too soon to kiss him.

"Sit with me."  
"Of course," George says and smiles. John sits on George’s bunk and pulls his boots off with a grunt.  
The narrow bunk creaks with the weight of two grown men. George levers off his own boots and puts them next to John’s. They are almost the same size.  
George leans back, weight on his hands and John shifts, thigh rubbing against George’s. Warm and strong.  
He puts a hand on it, smoothing the thick wool.  
Warmer than John’s jacket.

John makes a noise and their eyes meet. Wretched and dark and flinty now. Pupils blown, if George sees correctly in the dim light.  
"Are you already stiff, John? You’re holding yourself so carefully."  
George’s hand finds the inseam of John’s pants and then the outline of his half-hard prick.  
"Lord," John breathes and closes his eyes. He grabs George’s wrist tightly and lifts his hips into it.  
"That’s it, darling." George kneads John gently but firmly, until he’s sure that John is leaking in his linens.

It’s then that John stands aprubtly, swaying on his socked feet. He’s panting, hands in fists.  
George touches the white knuckles, kisses them. The hand flexes against his lips and John sucks in a breath.  
"John, don’t fret. We know each other, hm?"  
John swallows loudly, the ice creaks outside the ship and someone coughs in another room, close by. Possibly Edward.  
Wretched eyes look at George for a long moment.

It’s a moment where George hears the storm howling around his imaginary country estate and he can see the water dripping from John’s hair.  
He blinks and John is undressing down to his linens and shirt. Shivers.

"Undress and lie down, George." It’s the tone John uses with the men, when they don’t get to their feet quickly enough for his liking.  
George takes it with mild amusement.  
Darling John.  
"Alright, alright. Get under the covers before you freeze something off, John."

With a haughty sniff that would put Edward to shame John takes the single step back to George, into the bracket of his thighs.  
His hands reach into George’s hair, flattening it against his skull. They are warm, a bit sweaty.  
Shaking.  
George kisses the thin skin of his wrists, uncuffed sleeves pushed up and John moans. He presses closer against George, pawing at his waistcoat.  
"Take that bloody thing off, George, or the Lord may help you.  
That flinty stare levels men left and right, George has seen it. He knows that John doesn’t mean it with him.  
Not really.

He chuckles and still does as requested, tossing his waistcoat on John’s bed.  
John almost tears George’s trousers when he tries to pull them off a breath after the braces are pushed from George’s shoulders.  
"Slow down, let me undo the buttons you glutton. I don’t want to make up an excuse for Gibson why I tore all my buttons off. He'll hardly believe me."  
John grunts and cups George’s face in his sweaty hands. They still shake.  
Oh, darling John. He’s so close.  
"Please, George, stop talking." They both swallow, look at each other, swallow again. "I can’t stand it when you try to talk me through this."  
George smiles, touches John’s bearded cheek and takes his trousers off.

He slips under the covers and folds them back, tapping the mattress in invite.  
It takes a moment for John to move. George imagines water puddling on the floor, but he doesn’t have to imagine the shiver.  
"Please."  
John licks his lips and gingerly climbs in next to George.  
It’s tight in the bunk and blessedly warm. The heat from their skin gathers between them and George closes his eyes, leans his forehead against John’s shoulder and inhales.  
Sweat, salty and thick.  
He laps it up from John’s corded neck, kisses the hammering pulse under his ear.

John grabs the back of George’s head and presses his face into the warm dark where John’s neck meets his shoulder.  
George bites him gently, teeth worrying the tight muscle, witness to the rigid posture John holds himself to.  
The noises John stifles against the back of his hand vibrate first through his throat and George feels them against his lips.  
Hums with them.  
"So beautiful, darling John."  
John whimpers and shifts, hips rubbing at George with a woefully bad angle.

"Oh, my poor darling, let me," George soothes at John’s disjointed mumbles and gently urges him to turn on his side.  
He presses himself tightly against John’s back and pushes his shirts up into his armpits. His skin is already hot and moisture gathers where George puts his palm over John’s breastbone.  
With his other hand he undoes the drawstring of John’s linens. Pushes them down until John’s cockstand rests naked against his wrist.  
John grunts and thrusts his hip. The motion drags a thin stripe of wet over George’s hand and he licks behind John’s ear.  
"Already so slick, darling John, my beautiful man."  
"George, please," John hisses and somehow manages to pull his shirt and undershirt over his head without clocking George in the nose. He twists his head around and catches George’s mouth in a biting kiss.

Poor, darling John and the wretched noises spilling into George’s open mouth.  
He licks them from John’s tongue and strokes his chest, thumb rubbing one of his nipples until it peaks and pebbles under the touch.  
John breaks the sloppy kiss to pant. His face is half-hidden behind an arm, the other hand clasped tightly to George’s hip. Short nails bite through the linen and George rubs his cockstand against the cleft of John’s arse.  
Groans and rubs his facce over the sweaty back of John’s neck. He’s shaking again.  
They both are.

George squeezes John’s prick gently and peels back the hood with his thumb. The head is swollen, smooth and hot and he presses his thumb flat over the slit.  
John bucks and swallows a howl that George would love to hear in its entirety one day. Not the choked, bitten-off shadow that still makes his prick twitch, but the full-bellied, wretched howl of pleasure.  
His dark head is thrown back, throat stretched taut and George holds it in his palm, thumb still pressed over the slit of his prick.  
He feels another shout die in John’s throat and only a whimper crests his bitten lips.  
"Oh darling," George sighs and rubs himself against John once more.

He’s sweltering in his linens and shirts, but will not let go of John, lest he draw his wrath on himself.  
A particular mood that makes for an interesting experience, but not what George had in mind tonight.  
"Help me out of my linens, darling, will you? Be good for me."  
John moans, eyelids fluttering and hips rolling into George’s prick. He reaches back blindly, and George chuckles breathlessly when searching fingers find his prick before they find the buttons on his linens.  
"Hmm, George," John moans into the pillowcase and his fingers caress George through the thin cloth.  
For a moment they lose themself in the heady feeling of touching each other, of being touched.

Then John manages the two buttons and George’s cockstand nudges slick against the swell of his arse.  
George bites at John’s shoulder again and takes his reward in the twitch of the prick in his hand.  
"Eager, are you? So ready to spill for me, to show me how pretty you soil yourself, how you waste your seed."  
John’s legs part and he whimpers again.

"Wretch," George mumbles against the shell of his ear and rubs himself against John’s arse.  
"Fuck, George, if you don’t do something I’ll lose my mind."  
John’s voice is rough and raw from biting back his shouts and moans and George loves it.  
Wonders how John would look with his mouth stretched red and round around George’s prick.  
How his voice would sound after George spills down his throat.  
"I might force myself into your pretty mouth, darling John, and come undone between your lips."

John chokes another moan in his throat, mouth half-open and glistening in the light of the single lamp.  
George licks into it and John surges full-bodied, writhing against the sheets, George’s poor prick and his steady hand.  
"God."  
"Do not, I warn you, take His name into bed, Hodgson."  
"Well, well, Irving, who else should I invoke when such a blessing finds its way into my arms?"  
"Y-you don’t mean that."  
George licks the sweat from John’s shoulder and thrusts against the backs of his thighs until John opens them, letting George slide up against his testicles.  
"I mean it, darling John. Fetch the grease, will you? It’s a bit dry with only sweat. I bet if you could, you would be wet and slick for me, darling John, so ready to take me inside you and keep me there. Warm and safe."

John chokes on a whine and scrambles half out of the bed to reach the tin of wool grease on the shelf.  
Cold air rushes under the covers and George shivers. Takes his shirts off and shoves his linens down his thighs nonetheless.  
John kicks his off entirely, only his wool socks on now.  
"Reminds me of school," George says and touches John’s purpling prick, revealed by the slipping sheets, with two fingers, "The way you’re only in your socks and so eager for me. Reminds me of what we got up to in school, my friends and I."  
A jolt, a hiss and John clamps a tight hand around the base of his cockstand. His testicles are drawn and tight and George grins.  
"Come back here, darling John. I’m cold."  
"You’re the devil."  
"No. Come here, please."

John shivers and slips back into the bunk, sweat already cool on his skin.  
They are face to face now and George takes the opportunity by the back of it’s sweaty neck and kisses it soundly on the mouth.  
Filthy, with tongues and spit and biting at John’s full lips.  
John moans and presses himself tightly against George’s chest, hands curled into fists in the small of George’s back. The tin of wool grease is cold against his spine and he wrests it from John’s grip with a peck to his nose.

"Fuck, grease me up, George."

If the ice outside were just a bit louder, or the men not yet quite so settled that it’s almost entirely quiet aboard, then George wouldn’t have heard John’s dirty command.  
Or plea.  
But as it is the world chooses that second to be still and quiet and George grins against John’s temple.

"I will butter you like a crumpet, darling John. And then I’ll devour you whole."  
George knows that there are a hundred better ways to put it, but John still moans and lifts one knee to let George slide a hand slick with wool grease along his prick and testicles.  
John curses, long enough in the Navy to know some choice words that no man so adamant in God should ever utter.  
He is told so and curses even more.  
"Lift your leg again, darling John, I need to get more on your thighs."  
George nips at John’s pale shoulder and John holds his own leg up, covers sliding down to the waist. He looks positively indecent, skin gilt with the lamp light and slick with sweat.  
George watches for a moment, contemplating John like he would contemplate a new piece of art for his sitting room.

"Hurry up, George, we don’t have all night."  
"We do have all night," George answers and smears grease thickly over the sensitive skin on the inside of John’s thighs.  
His breath catches and gooseflesh rises under George’s fingers, they both grin and George strokes the rest of the wool grease over his own pulsing prick. He gives in to the temptation of a few hard thrusts into his fist.  
"Wish we had time and space enough to open you up for me, darling, get you loose and wet and ready for me. Moaning for my prick to fill you up."  
John whimpers and lets go of his leg to drag George closer by the waist, cheeks red as if from rouge.

"Stop talking," he pleads against George’s lips and George smiles indulgently.  
Shimmies forward and pushes his prick along the underside of John’s.  
"No, I don’t think I will. You like it so when I tell you how well you’re doing. How beautiful you look when you come undone on my prick."

John bites his lip and fists a hand in George’s hair, pulling at it fiercely. His eyes are black in the semi-darkness of the bunk and George’s mouth falls open.  
Beautiful, beautiful John. Like a raging angel, driven half mad with lust.  
George thrusts his hips, prick bumping into John’s hot testicles, rubbing against them with the insistent thrusts he cannot, will not, stop now.  
"George!"  
He presses a toothy smile against the side of John’s neck and snaps their hips together.  
"I’m here, John, I’m right here."

John’s prick is crushed against George’s belly, wet tip immediately sticking the hair to George’s skin.  
At the same time George tilts his hips up, prick nudging over the spot behind John’s testes that has him biting George’s shoulder to keep quiet.  
He presses on, sliding between John’s rigids thighs as far as he can go, and then slowly pulls out again.  
John pants, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

"My dear wretch," George grunts and tilts John’s chin up, licking into his mouth.  
The sheets are glued to their sweaty skin, the bunk creaks louder than the ice outside and George can feel John’s heart beat against his own chest.  
If he could stop breathing so harshly – if they both could – he is sure he could hear it hammer away in the protective bow of John’s ribs.

George wants nothing more but to hear John’s heart hammer away.  
Wants to hear a rainstorm thunder against glass, wants to hear hooves on cobblestone.  
Laughter and birdsong, a grateful prayer for once, and not one that pleads for salvation.  
John moans into the hair above George’s ear and that is good enough for now.

George keeps thrusting, John jolting against him with every snap of his hips, arms thrown around George’s neck.  
They look at each other and George has to stop moving or he will come undone before he’s done.  
John licks his lips, blinks slowly. His hair sticks to his forehead with sweat and George brushes it aside.  
"So beautiful for me, only for my eyes, yes?"  
Somehow John manages to push George’s linens off with his feet, so that they can be kicked to the foot of the bunk.  
Then he rolls himself half under George, eyes still half open and like a bottomless tide pool. He’s nodding.

"Ah, darling John. How sweet of you," George murmurs when he understands.  
George lifts himself over John, bracketing his primly closed legs with his own, hands left and right of John’s face on the pillow.  
John reaches over George’s shoulders and pulls the sheets up to the back of his neck. Completely covered like that, like husband and wife, George feels more alive than he has in months.  
John’s cheeks are glowing, his chest is heaving. His hands trail over George’s shoulders, his waist and then drop away.

There is no way of seeing what he does in the darkness under the sheets, but George waits with an eager cockstand.  
Not for long.  
John’s warm fingers take him by the root gently and guide him back into the greased heat of his lap.

He must have lifted his testes out of the way, George can feel the backs of John’s knuckles against the underside of his prick, but not the tight swell of the testicles.  
Only smooth, greasy heat.  
"Like a proper lady for me, John."  
"Sod off, George," John pants, eyes stuck to George’s chest.  
He’s tighter than before, thighs flexed and pressed close. The sweltering heat under the sheets, between John’s legs is near overwhelming.  
"I think we’d be rather cross with each other if I did that at this point."  
George barely manages the sentence in one go, chest tight with the effort to stay quiet and not shout his pleasure as loud as he can.  
John doesn’t even try to answer, he just claws at George’s hips and crushes them together.

It makes George weak at the elbow and he drops his weight on John, forehead against John’s cheek. He nuzzles John’s beard, licks sweat from it and John gasps loud in his ear.  
Slowly George starts thrusting into John’s lap, urged on by the sharp prick of fingernails on his arse.  
John keens, throat stretched taut again and George bites at his adam’s apple. Gently, mindful not to leave a mark, and John shivers delicately against George.  
Their sweat mixes and George feels as if they are making their own ocean between them.  
Saltwater is what makes a sailor a sailor.

He thrusts harder, faster and John sobs, hands clawing at George’s shoulders. He’s mumbling, babbling, mouth open and eyes huge, black with pleasure and glistening with tears.  
George pulls at John’s earlobe with his teeth and murmurs filth against the thin skin beneath: "So sweet, darling John, so good for me, hm, just like that. That’s how you like it, yes? When I make you whimper for more."  
John shivers, tears falling from his eyes, mixing with the sweat on his face. He nods, moans George's name like a prayer in its own right.  
George kisses John’s temple, strokes his hair and fucks hard between his thighs.  
The bunk screams, not build for two grown men and especially not for these vigorous activities.

"George, George, I’m-", John seizes suddenly, thighs squeezing George tightly between them and then there’s the warm wet of John’s seed against George’s belly.  
John’s face glows, forehead glistening with sweat, mouth soft and open, eyes wide and dark.  
He shivers.  
"Darling John," George manages, thrusts quick and quicker, John moaning so sweetly beneath him. He’s shaking now, prick twitching helplessly between them, fingers scrabbling for purchase on George’s sweat-slick back.  
John never looks quite as fetching as he does undone.

His fingers somehow worm into George’s hair, shaking still, hot and wet. John closes his fist, pulls George’s head back and bites at his collarbone.  
George finishes so hard he is convinced, for a breath or two, that they are in the master bedroom of a country house, bed large and soft, a merry fire in the grate and the drapes drawn against the storm outside.  
He blinks and finds himself with his face in the bow of John’s shoulder and his hips still twitching, prick slowly softening between John’s thighs.  
With every breath, every hammering heartbeat they slow, settle and relax against each other.

It will not last long, so George cherishes a loose-limbed John in his arms.

"I fear we made quite the mess of the sheets." John’s voice is hoarse and he clears his throat, face still red and sweaty, mouth caught in a vague smile.  
George chuckles and stretches his legs, sliding half off of John.  
John turns on his side, grimaces and reaches between his legs. His hand glistens in the low light and George helps him wipe it on the sheets.  
"I’ll ask Jopson to take care of it."  
"Jopson?"  
"More discreet with stains. I can’t possibly ask Gibson to wash these sheets."

John makes a soft noise and stretches. He touches George’s chest, the faint dusting of blond hair, the flat nipples.  
He bends and kisses over George’s heart.  
"Goodnight," John whispers against the hot skin and George shivers.  
John’s hair is tangled and wet between his fingers, but the kiss they share is warm and sweet.  
"Goodnight, darling John."  
Now it is John that chuckles and then he slips from the nest of heat under the soiled sheets, he splashes himself at the wash basin, turns off the lamp and George hears him slide under his covers.  
"Fuck, that’s cold."  
"Irving, what kind of language is that? Don’t let the men hear you swear."  
John laughs again, soft and quiet and silence falls in their little room.

George tries not to fall asleep in the wet spot in the middle of his bunk and knows that he will wake with his hip glued to it nonetheless.  
He closes his eyes in the dark and licks his lips. They still taste of John.  
His pillow smells like John and will do so until tomorrow.  
Then he will have fresh sheets and John will act as if tonight never happened.

Until it happens again.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you came this far, you naughty reader.
> 
> Percy, this is your legacy.


End file.
